


Death of the heart

by AvaJones



Series: Something to do with Hearts and Butterflies [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Depression, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaJones/pseuds/AvaJones
Summary: John struggles with every day life after losing Sherlock.His life was almost the same as it had been before he ever met the man.Almost. This time he also had to bare the lost of his best friend.Maybe it's just to much to bare.





	Death of the heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shades of pain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10080530) by [AvaJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaJones/pseuds/AvaJones). 



> This story takes place two weeks before Sherlock's return in Shades of Pain.  
> Please read Shades of Pain first. The story will make a lot more sense that way.  
> I love kudos and comments !  
> Happy reading!

Silence.  
That was all there was.  
I was sitting on the edge of my bed again, as I had done every morning and evening for the last eleven months. The gun was lying in my hand. The weight familiar, the metal cold against my skin.  
The sound of my breathing seemed far away, as was the throbbing of my heartbeat.  
All there was, was silence.

You had taken it with you those eleven months ago. The sounds of laughter, adrenalin and life. Gone was the sound of running footsteps across London, shouting to running suspects, the sound of our breathing heavily and the rush of blood pumping through our veins because of the chase. Gone was the throbbing of my heart against my ribs, the fluttering of the butterflies in my stomach.

Gone was the sound of your deep rumbling voice, muttering against me, shouting, laughing or holding a monologue. Gone. Completely gone. And the thought of the sounds never returning was just to much to bare for me.

But I never had been an coward.

I put the gun back into the drawer of the nightstand and closed it again. I sighed and stood up, getting ready to go to work again.

○°○

My heart has broken the day that you jumped. Seeing you fall down from that rooftop has broken me. Your gorgeous body laying broken on the pavement, the most beautiful and most observing eyes I had ever seen staring up into the sky without observing anything anymore. That genius brain stilled, bleeding, broken. That was the day I died myself. My life had ended. It wasn't just your heart that had stopped beating as soon as you hit that pavement, my heart had stopped, too.  
I never believed the things you said to me on that phone call. You weren't a fake. You never googled me when we've met, you'd never set those cases up just to impress me. It was you for god sake! You were a bloody marvel, a whirlwind, a mad scientist and a genius. A beautiful creature that had held my heart his your hands without even knowing it. And you didn't let go when you took that step over the edge. You took my heart with you; over the edge, falling down, crushing at the ground. It was gone, just like you. Gone. Completely gone. And the thought of your absence was just to much to bare for my heart.  
So every morning and every night I sat on my bedside with my gun in my hands. Would it be today?

○°○

I left. I left Bakerstreet and it's owner. It was too overwhelming, staying there. Everything remembered me of you. The astray you had stolen from Buckingham palace, the skull on the mantelpiece, the microscope in the kitchen, the secret stack of cigarettes, the way too expensive shampoo in the shower, your violin. I just had to close my eyes to see you standing in front of the window, your eyes partly closed, your mind wandering, your fingers cherishing the strings and bow, completely lost in the sounds you produced. But I couldn't imagine those beautiful tones anymore. It was too much. So I left Bakerstreet. I left Mrs Hudson. She cried, of course, and if my heart hadn't died already with you, I would have been heart broken once more. She asked me to stay, told me that I just needed more time, that this feelings would fade to something less painful. She was wrong. The pain stayed, and became even worse, even without Bakerstreet surrounding me. But I was sure that I made the right decision. Within Bakerstreet I had no chance to heal, and I owed our friends that I at least tried that. Try to heal, try too fix my broken, absent heart, try to let the sounds come back. But I knew it was a lost cause. I never tried hard enough, I couldn't fight that pain, it was just too much.  
So every morning and every night I sat on my bedside with my gun in my hands. Would it be today?

○°○

Our friends were worried. I could tell. Greg called me regularly, and dragged me down with him to the pub. Molly asked me to come for dinner on several occasions, and I did give in a few times. Mrs Hudson asked me to do some small things around the house, stuffing me with tea and cookies when I was there, complaining that I had lost so much weight. They all tried so hard to make me feel better, to take away some of this pain. They were in pain too. They missed you too. But not the way I did. They didn't have to struggle with the silence, with a dead heart in their chest. They could see the good in things, move on, enjoying the small things in life. But I just could not. And it hurt me to see that our friends were worrying themselves because of me. So I took a distance. I didn't answer the phone every time Greg called anymore, and I told Molly I just couldn't make it. I've had been almost honest with Mrs. Hudson. Telling her that it hurt to much to be there in Bakerstreet, and she seemed to understand. I took my distance, and not just from my friends. I stepped back from every day life. Stopped going to my psychiatrist, stopped going to work, I even stopped caring about my physique. I didn't go to the gym anymore, but I did ran five or six times a week. I ran until I could only feel the soreness of my muscles and the burning of my lungs, instead of the pain in my dead heart and the tears of death butterflies in my stomach. I didn't bother to shave myself anymore and I started a drinking habit. Alcohol I could manage, better than dinner. My body accepted the poison I poured down my throat every evening before I went to bed.  
This was my life now. Soundless and empty. So every morning and every night I sat on my bedside with my gun in my hands. Would it be today?

○°○

I loved you. I had denied it at first to myself, but I loved you. You madman with your long limbs and biting tongue, your beautiful voice and gorgeous hands. With your sulking's and tantrums, your deep laugh and the caring I sometimes saw in your eyes. A look you kept hidden except for me. Letting the people around you believe that you were cold, heartless, a sociopath. Except for me. You had shown me more, so much more. I have seen you scared, admit that I was your only friend. I have seen the look in your eyes when you thought I couldn't see you. I have seen a fraction of the man behind the mask. A man with a heart, a man that made my own heart sing with joy. I never acted on it. I liked to think that neither of us did because we were afraid that one of us had read the signs wrong. And neither of us wanted to put our special friendship at stake. I didn't just loved you. I had fallen in love with you. In love with that beautiful mind of yours, in love with that handsome body of yours. The butterflies in my stomach used to flutter happily when ever I saw your face lit up when you discovered something. They used to flutter when you reacted on my compliments or when I was bedazzled with your deductions. They used to flutter when you chose not to just let the violin haul but sing the most beautiful sounds into the living room. They used to be trashing my stomach when you gazed at me, looking too long into my eyes, looking at my mouth, taking your eyes from them just to late. They used to trash my stomach when ever I saw the small smile on your face, just for me, or when you touched me without realising what it did to me. And my butterflies used to go insane and even left my stomach to take over the rest of my body on that spares times I almost did something with those feelings. I almost kissed you in the hallway of 221b, I almost grabbed the sheet from you at Buckingham palace, just to wrap us both in it. I almost touched that distracting arse when you were bent over some corpse at a crime scene. And on our last evening together, running down the streets, handcuffed on each other, I wanted to do it. Adrenalin was pushing through my veins, my was heart full of you being attached to me, and there was only a small metal fence between us. I should have done it, I should have leaned in further and take those damned lips with my own. Then maybe I would not have been sitting here, every morning and every night on my bedside with my gun in my hands. Would it be today?

○°○

Today is the day.  
I knew it when I woke up. I didn't take the gun out of the nightstand this morning, knowing it wasn't time yet. For the first time since your fall I have slept a full night without waking up. I even slept in. I felt more rested than I have felt in months. I felt content, finally making the decision.  
Today is the day.  
I showered myself thoroughly, shaved myself properly, taking my time. I got myself dressed in my favourite clothes, (the jumper you liked so much, but I just couldn't wear anymore.) and I even got out to get some fresh air, taking a walk though the park. I went to the licensed victualler's shop and bought myself an expensive, beautiful honey coloured whisky. It was our anniversary after all. Tonight I went to Angelo's. I sat at our table. The table I had been sitting at three years ago, looking at the marvellous man across me, and I remembered the feeling of the first butterfly awakening in my stomach. I ordered your favourite, combined with a superb bottle of wine. It was good. It all felt good this way. I feel I got to say goodbye like this. Goodbye to the best two years of my life, almost forgetting the last one I just went through.  
Today is the day.  
When I got home I opened the bottle of whiskey, sat down on my sofa, and drank the excellent liquor, feeling it warming my throat and chest, in a way it hadn't been warmth in almost a year. I even allowed myself to listen to the sounds that you had taken with you. I allowed myself to cry over them. I imagined the music coming from that violin in your hands, the sound of your deep rumbling voice, the sound of your laugh and even the sound of the sparse giggles I got out of you. I loved you. I loved you more than I had ever loved anything or anyone in my whole life. And I needed you. Without you it just wasn't worth it. I put the half empty bottle of whiskey aside, and went into my bedroom. I sat at the bedside and opened the drawer.

The gun in my hands feel less heavy than before, and even the cool metal isn't as cold as it used to feel. The corner of my mouth went up in a smile that hasn't been on my face for months, and even my dead heart seemed to come alive a bit, just for this moment.  
I put the barrel of my gun against my temple, and the smile never left my face.

'I love you, Sherlock.'

and finally I pulled the trigger.

○°○

'Be patient, Dr. Watson. All thing will come to an end, eventually.'


End file.
